


us two

by 20apples



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Swearing, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20apples/pseuds/20apples
Summary: It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 14
Kudos: 96





	us two

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Some of you may recognize this fanfiction, and that's because I first posted it as a multi-chapter, a looong time ago. I never finished it (sorry) and ultimately ended up deleting the entire work (sorry). 
> 
> Due to current global events, I've found myself with some extra free time so I decided to give it another go. I always meant to post it as a one shot anyway, so hopefully this is a better reading experience.  
> TBH, the fandom itself lost its appeal very quickly, but I'm still fond of these characters and all the much more talented writers contributing to this tag. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Summary from 1 Corinthians 13:4-8.
> 
> Stay safe!

**1**

Patrick likes sleeping with him. Not in the crude sense of the phrase, not just fucking, but lying on the same bed, too. Jon sleeps on his back most nights, with his arms stretched out next to him and his legs spread wide. He’s got a restless sleep, especially now that he’s trying to cut back on THC. Sometimes he’ll twist and turn until Patrick gets on top of him, gets his face on Jon’s neck and his stomach against Jon’s side, his knee between Jon’s legs. Sometimes Patrick has to grab Jon’s arms with his hands and press them against the mattress to make Jon stop. Then, only then, Jon settles. His chest’s movements grow slower, more paced. He hums some intelligible shit, lets out a deep breath, and falls asleep. More often than not, Patrick stays like that all night.

He likes it. It feels good, being needed. Patrick had never felt needed outside a pair of skates until he met Jon. Jon makes him feel like he’s a real person, with a real life. He isn’t, but with Jon he can pretend. 

In the morning, Jon scoffs at the marks Patrick’s fingers left on his forearms from holding onto him all night. He scoffs, but he doesn’t question it. Anyone else would. Jon never does. He just fucking scoffs. He makes it so easy. Patrick props himself on his elbows so he can look down at him. Pale light’s just started to pour into the room, and it makes Jon’s face look soft.

“Good sleep?” Patrick asks.

Jon lets out a yawn. “Yeah. I’m sleeping with a…” His jaw cracks on a second yawn and Patrick can’t help but smile. “’m sleeping with a cat, apparently. Scratches me all night.” 

“Uh yeah?” Patrick drawls, and makes _brrr_ noises into Jon’s face until Jon clicks his tongue and pushes him off to the side. “Ah, c’mon. I could get me a tail. Or some ears for you. Don’t say you wouldn’t look so fucking cute—”

There’s a hand against his face. A big, strong hand, callused and rough. It still smells like sex. Like jizz. Just a sniff is enough to get Patrick worked up. Jon sits up and rubs at his eyes. “It’s fucking 6 am, eh, Kaner. Turn it all the way down.”

“Alright, boss man.” Patrick says, voice muffled from under Jon’s hand. Then he kisses it, softly, once, twice. Then he bites it. Jon yanks it back with a yelp, and the next thing to hit Patrick’s face is a pillow. “ _Ow_ , hey.”

“ _Ow_ my ass.” Jon grumbles.

“I will, baby. I’ll _ow_ your ass any day—” The pillow hits him again. Patrick grabs it and flings it towards the opposite side of the room. They both watch as it splats against the wall and falls to the floor with a satisfying _poof_.

“Mature.”

“Bite me.”

A couple of seconds pass where Jon’s just looking at him, like he’s deciding whether or not he’ll do exactly that, but in the end he doesn’t. Instead, Jon leans down and kisses Patrick’s forehead the way he’s started doing ever since he realized Patrick would let him. At first, Patrick faked disgust. Chirped Jon a lot. Called him cheesy. Now, though, he doesn’t give a shit. He’s tired. He’s too fucking tired. He’s tired of denying himself things.

A hand rests on the side of his face, Jon’s thumb rubbing soft over his cheekbone. “We got fucking camp today.” Jon murmurs against his forehead. Patrick wraps an arm around Jon’s back and starts scratching the tiny hairs behind his neck. The cut’s short as hell now. Makes him look like a fucking marine. “We’re old, eh?”

“Speak for yourself.” Patrick says. He wishes the grin wasn’t so apparent in his voice. “I’m young and beautiful, I mean, look at my hair.”

Jon laughs. The sound alone makes Patrick’s insides light up like a bonfire. The sheets rustle as Jon gives Patrick’s hairline a mocking kiss and gets up.

**2**

It’s not like Jonathan’s ashamed, because he definitely isn’t. He’s done a lot of soul searching on this, and the shame doesn’t come from him, it comes from others. For sure, he’d internalized a lot of stuff he had to work through and sort out in his head, but he can’t do the same for other people. There are times he wishes he could, even though his therapist’s made it very clear it’s a waste of energy. Physical, emotional, spiritual. Overall, a fucking pointless course of action. Jonathan agrees. So he started listing statements in his head, stuff he is _sure_ of, stuff he can trust to be true:

One, Pat’s his person. Two, he’s not ashamed of that. Three, he can’t control how other people feel about that. Four, how they feel doesn’t fucking matter.

Four’s a bit shaky, still, but he’s working on it. Like right now.

Right now he’s working on it. Jonathan’s watching Pat gesture on and on to Brinks about some fucking pointless stat, he’d bet, and he’s trying not to wonder if someone’s noticed him staring. Jonathan’s sitting normally, in his stall, not doing anything strange in particular, just looking at Pat while he takes off his skates. Maybe that’s already too much, though. Jonathan used to be so fucking paranoid of looking at Pat in the lockers, so afraid he’d tell on himself, on them.

They had these characters they played at the UC, who argued and yelled at each other. Sometimes they’d play these characters for so long they forgot how to act anywhere else.

Those weren’t good times. Jonathan sighs. Pat’s fucking killer in his underarmour, he really is.

“Taze, tell me something.” Shawzy quips to his right, and Jonathan hums noncommittally. He congratulates himself for not jumping out the bench. “Would you rather fuck a horse or let a horse fuck you?”

Despite everything, that makes him laugh. “Fucking hell.”

“Not in real life! Just a little what if scenario.”

“No little _what if_ , ya’ freak, that’s not happening.”

“But what if the horse gave you the choice.” Shawzy insists, and they both turn to watch Saader let out what can only be described as a booming fit of giggling.

“Horses don’t fucking talk. How could he even ask?” He says between snorts. Shawzy throws a tape ball at him and it hits him square on the nose. “Hey, what!”

“That’s not the point. You know, this could’ve been an interesting conversation.”

“About—” Saader coughs, and has to take a second before repeating, “About Jonny having sex with a horse?”

Jonathan lets them take over whatever the hell that was and looks back at Patrick, only to find him looking back with an amused expression on his face. He mouths ‘ _horsefucker_ ’, and Jonathan rolls his eyes. ‘ _horse’,_ he enunciates. No matter how long it’s been, making Patrick Kane the II turn red as he bites down his grin is always a rush to the fucking groin.

**3**

“I can’t, I fuckin’—I can’t.” Patrick hears himself say, and moan, too, this fucked up broken thing that echoes out of his throat like it was punched out of him. The backseat’s hard leather scratches his legs and rubs dry against his knees, but he doesn’t care. No, Patrick just feels the heat.

He feels the warmth of Jon’s skin against his mouth as he pants into the crease of his neck. He tastes the sweat and chlorine that’s gathered there, bittersweet on his tongue. They’re still wet from the pool, and Jon’s hands slide across his back like it’s tile until he remembers to use his nails. It hurts. It hurts so fucking good. Patrick’s hips move faster, faster, faster, out of their own volition and Jon chokes out a groan. He’s got one foot flat against the frontseat’s headrest, knees bent completely over Patrick’s shoulders, and Patrick, not for the first time, thanks God for yoga.

The sound of their skin slapping together sounds obscene in the car’s silence. Outside the afternoon’s sky turning pink, and there’s music playing on the other side of the house, barely audible. Inside the car, though, there’s nothing but the smell of lube, chlorine and leather. Patrick’s got no clue how he hasn’t come yet. He’s trying to slow down, enjoy the tightness around his dick, make it good for Jon, too, but he can’t. He _can’t_. It’s as if he’s a man dying at the desert who just caught sight of a water stream.

He kisses up Jon’s jaw to his ear, then his cheek. “I can’t.” Patrick repeats, voice hoarse.

Callused hands take hold of his face, and then he’s being kissed, almost as obscenely as they’re fucking, spit everywhere. Jon’s tongue licks at the roof of his mouth and Patrick snaps his hips so hard, it makes Jon’s head hit the car door.

“Shit, baby, are you,”

“Shut up.” Jon interrupts. “Don’t stop, c’mon.”

The pressure’s in his balls is unbearable. They feel like a rubber band, stretched to the max, held by prayer alone. Patrick grabs Jon’s hair with one hand, sticky fingers be damned, and fucks in as deep as he can until Jon’s panting against his lips. He’s closed his eyes and his lashes are stark dark against his cheekbones. He’s so fucking beautiful.

And he likes Patrick. Jon might even love him.

“ _Shit_.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Jon croaks out. One of his hands snakes its way down between their bodies to fist his dick and start pumping. “I’m right with you. I got you. Come on, Peeks, fill me up, babe, _fuck_.”

Patrick bites Jon’s neck to muffle his moan, and comes. He comes, and shakes, and comes, and Jon’s legs are shaking too when he finally stretches them out. They both wince when Patrick’s dick slips out. He takes out the condom and ties it up, grateful that he’s able to do it without looking. He drops it inside a plastic bag under the seats and takes a deep, deep breath. When he looks at Jon, Jon’s already looking at him.

They lie there, on the backseat of Patrick’s Hummer, tangled together, breathing loudly and looking at each other.

To think Patrick used to dread afterglows. If he wasn’t out of bed the moment the girl was finished then it’d be right after. Now, though, he’d be fine with not moving for a very long time.

“Did you come?” Patrick asks after a while. The answer’s on his stomach, but he wants to hear Jon sputter about it.

“Fuckin' hell, are you serious?”

“I dunno, Jonny, I was busy filling you up.”

In less than a second, Jon has him on a headlock. “What was that? Big guy?” He taunts, and Patrick unsuccessfully struggles against him for a few seconds. He whacks Jon’s arm again, but Jon stays immovable. “Get me some fucking wet wipes, Kaner.” 

“Ay ay, cap.” Patrick concedes. Jon huffs and gives him one saliva-filled kiss on the forehead before he lets him go. “Charming, thank you.”

“Go cry about it.” 

It’s such a stupid thing to say Patrick can’t help but blurt out a laugh. He reaches across the front seats for the glove compartment box and tries not to like it too much when Jon takes the opportunity to slap his ass. “Cut it out.”

“No.”

Patrick throws the wipes at his face and fakes a swoon when Jon catches the packet before it hits him.

“So, it took us about an hour to get more beer from the store which is like, ten minutes away. Yeah, the boys are gonna eat that.” Jon comments off-handedly as he rips out a wipe. 

“Sure they will. Oh, and we also had to look for a toilet because you had explosive diarrhea.”

Jon stops, closes his eyes like he’s hurting, and tries to shove his wipe into Patrick’s laughing mouth.

**4**

The first time Dylan stepped out of a plane in O’Hare as an Hawk he went straight to the toilets and spent a good 10 minutes sitting inside a stall. He wanted to change that image of himself: the one of a guy broken by a desert that didn’t want him. He’d make it work. He had to. He had to keep his head out the Chel’s surface and float for dear life. He couldn’t sink down to minors again. So he put his face on his hands, counted to 20 and with each second that passed he thought, _Don’t fuck it up._

He walked out of Arrivals in search for a taxi, but his steps slowed to a halt when he noticed Alex and his girlfriend waiting for him. They were holding hands. Dylan had left a girl behind in Arizona. He hadn’t thought of her once up until that point.

If he hugged Alex too tight, if his eyes were a little glazed, if he sniffed Alex’s hair, Alex didn’t comment on it. He hugged back, and smelled the same he did in Erie, and Dylan felt like he’d finally, finally landed home.

And he has. He’s got a google alert for his name again. He lives in a real apartment, with a guest room and everything, and he can hang pictures on the walls. He doesn’t have to go scream into a pillow after Davo calls. He didn’t fuck it up. Not yet, at least.

And he intends to keep it that way.

Who gives a fuck what he saw, anyhow? It was his own fault, too, for wandering around those parts. He didn’t have to take a walk to the front gate. He’d had a few beers, everyone was having a good time. He should’ve stayed in his fucking chair and listened to Duncan’s boring descriptions of the various huge fish he almost caught that one time. But he didn’t.

And now he’s stumbling his way back into Seabs’ backyard and the image is burned to the back of his head. How they were standing together by the car. Kaner, with a crate of beer under one arm, leaning against the door, looking at Jonny while Jonny talked on the phone. Jonny’s hand, holding Kaner’s. Their intertwined fingers. Dylan had turned on his heels and fled the scene before he could process it. They never saw him.

He saw them.

Dylan forces a smile as he joins the group on the table, and thinks, with every step, _Don’t fuck it up._

**5**

It’s started to rain. Not too much. A light drizzle. It tickles Patrick’s eyelashes. He pulls on his hoodie’s strings to make it a tighter fit and switches his music to softer beats. The street lamps are bright orange in the night’s dark, blurry behind the rain. He watches the water splatter against the pavement, distort the reflexes of the cars that drive past.

At least he’s got his Timbs on. Some part of him must’ve known it would rain. Patrick looks up at the tall buildings around him. Concrete, everywhere. He puts his hands under his armpits, hugging himself. He’s not cold, not with the thick sweater he has underneath Jon’s old SSM hoodie, but he’s not used to feeling so fucking small. He hears a laugh, followed by excited talking, and the weight in his chest eases.

There’s a group of people on the other side of the street waiting for an Uber, probably. He keeps walking, and tries not to stare too much. They must’ve gone out. How late is it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know _where_ he is. Looks like downside Chicago, fuck knows where exactly.

Patrick keeps walking. He walks, and walks. After a while, he can’t hear those people anymore. He takes in the dark sky, the buildings. He walks until his mind starts to float out of his own body and the music cradles him into a feeling of nothingness. Thoughts become like the rain around him, dropped and forgotten. The streets are completely empty. Patrick smiles, at nothing in particular.

It takes him a few seconds to realize his earphones have fallen silent. His phone’s buzzing in his hoodie’s pocket. Patrick slides his finger across the screen without looking and whispers, “Hey.”

He doesn’t stop walking.

“Hey.” Jon repeats, voice hard. Neither of them adds anything else. Patrick doesn’t know what else to say, so he keeps quiet. He hears Jon sigh. “Where the fuck are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, you don’t fucking—d’you have an umbrella with you, at least? If you get a cold—”

He doesn’t have an umbrella. “I won’t. I’m warm.” Patrick interrupts, twisting the the SSM hoodie between his hands. “Night terrors again?”

Silence. Jon breathes on the other side of the line, and Patrick listens. He knows Jon’s going to lie, say no, he just felt Patrick’s absence, which Patrick knows to be untrue because he made sure Jon was asleep before he left the bed. He always does. Jon doesn’t just startle awake at night looking for a body next to his for no reason, not like Patrick does. He holds out a hand in front of him, palm up, and relishes in the feeling of cold, soft rain hitting his skin.

“There was a lizard in my tomatoes a couple of months ago,” Jon starts, out of nowhere, and Patrick’s hand falls to his side. He stops walking. That’s different. “Little guy, no bigger than my hand. They don’t eat plants, just insects, but I thought, hell, he’ll run out of ‘em up here in no time, with the pesticide and all. So I put it in a jar, the curved one from the kitchen, and I took the jar, went down to the garden down the road—you know the one I’m talking about, the one on the right?”

“I do, Jon.”

“So, I got there and I tilted the jar, to let him out, but the little guy, get this, he wouldn’t fucking leave. He wanted to stay right where he was. It looked kind of funny, he had his little arms and his little legs wide. Holding on for dear life. I kept shaking the jar, and he’d just look up at me like, fuck off, _you_ put me in here, eh? This is my fuckin’ house now.”

A light breeze blows soft into Patrick’s face. He’s starting to tremble, but it’s still not from the cold. “Jonny.”

“I couldn’t make him leave. So I had two options, right, either I leave the lizard there, jar and everything, just leave him there like that, or I bring him back with me, and leave him to starve in my own fucking balcony.” Jonny all but spits. “So what do you think I did?”

“I get it, Jon—”

“I dropped the fucking jar, Pat. I tried to fake a throw, make the bounce shoot him off, or something, _fuck_ , I don’t know what I was thinking, but the jar slipped off my hands and I dropped it. Shattered everywhere. I killed him. I had to go home and get a broom to clean up my mess.” A few seconds go by. Patrick stares at his Timbs, frozen quiet. His heart is thundering inside his chest. Jon clicks his tongue, a harsh, loud sound that pops Patrick’s ears. “I didn’t tell you about this, because this all happened, all of this, at four in the fucking morning, after I woke up alone in bed, _again_.”

“Alright, hey, I’ve tried to explain—”

“ _Fuck_ your explanations!” Jon screams, and Patrick rips off his earphones from the jack and puts the phone directly to his ear. “You can’t keep doing this shit to me. Some days you act like you want to fucking crawl inside me, some days—”

“No, I always do.” Patrick interrupts. Even his whispering sounds loud in the quiet of the street. He feels small again, and this time the feeling is not welcome. “I never stop. C’mon, you know that, you know me.”

He wishes he could add that he spends every waking moment thinking about Jon, where he is, how is he, what he’s doing, if he’s happy, or sad, if he’s thinking about Patrick, too. He wishes he could explain that sometimes it seems like the feeling’s going to swallow him whole, like he’ll collapse under the weight of what’s at stake for him if Jon ever decides they’re done. Most people have choices, alternatives, lifeboats they’ll turn to when something else goes wrong. Patrick has his family, hockey and Jonny. His family can’t give him what hockey does. And hockey can’t give him what Jon does.

Patrick wishes he could explain that some nights he startles awake with his legs between Jon’s and realizes he’s holding his life in his arms, and that fucking terrifies him. So he leaves, because he wants to prove to himself he can be alone.

But he can’t say it.

The line goes quiet for some time. “Don’t come back here.” Jon murmurs, and hangs up.

It’s not raining anymore. Patrick pulls the neck of the hoodie over his nose and takes a deep, deep breath.

**6**

Team breakfast is quiet. Breakfast was always quiet with the Yotes, but Dylan quickly got used to the constant chatter in Chicago, the easy jokes brewed for years between the same group of assholes.

Today, though, it’s quiet. They got in late last night, later it should’ve been, because the plane was late to take off and some of the equipment got mixed up when they arrived. Still, it doesn’t explain the subsided mood of the guys around him. There’s conversation, of course, small talk, hockey talk, stats talk. Crow’s showing his kid to one of the rookies.

Dylan glances around as he chews his granola, intrigued, and his eyes catch on Jonny in the last table. He’s slouched down in his chair, just staring off into the distance with a weird look on his face. His expression’s blank, like he’s rebooting. Usually he’d be giving someone a headache about their gluten print or something.

Without thinking, Dylan searches for Kaner, too. Kaner’s three tables to his right, and he’s not really talking either, which isn’t exactly unusual, considering how closed off Kaner is in the morning.

Dylan lets his spoon drop inside the bowl and swallows. He looks back at Jonny.

Maybe something happened. Jonny’s shoulders go up and down slowly as he blows out a breath. Dylan’s eyes search for Kaner again, and his stomach drops like he’s going down a roller coaster. Kaner’s looking at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

Dylan stares at his granola until he feels a kick to his chins. “ _What._ ”

“You trying to find the meaning of life in there?” Alex asks between a mouthful of apple.

“No, just your sense of humor, dipshit.”

Alex laughs. “Okay, that was actually pretty good.” He swallows down his apple and kicks Dylan in the chins again. “Fuck you, though, I’m funny.”

“As a concussion.” Dylan says. His heart is still fucking hammering. He didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t act any different, neither did they. Everything stayed the same. Everything is fine.

“You boys are so fucking cute.” Duncs comments off-handledly.

The guys suddenly perk up at the possibility of a new chirping subject and Dylan feels like a deer in the headlights. Seabs _mhm’s_ loudly. “Yeah, and I thought Patty and Taze would be our last great romance, thank God.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jonny snaps, voice too hard in the silence that follows. It might be the first thing Dylan’s heard him say all morning. His chair almost topples backwards from how fast he gets up.

“I’m going up.” Dylan announces.

He can still feel Kaner’s eyes on his back as he flees the room. His phone pings in his hand with a notification.

 _????????????_ , Alex texted him.

 _You’re fucking telling me_ , Dylan thinks, and leaves it on read.

**7**

His mom used to worry herself sick about him. She’d call him over during playdates to wipe dirt of his cheek with her thumb and say, “Prends soin de toi, mon amour.” Jonathan wasn’t bullied or anything, very much the opposite, he was just always … chasing. He chased others for their approval, admiration, affection, praise. In return, they’d put him in charge of everything: what games they should play, with whom, where, how. And he let them, because the responsibility felt like something real he could hold onto. Proof there were people who liked him.

It was exhausting. He remembers getting home after practice and crashing on whatever horizontal surface he could find before Andrée yelled at him to get up. When he started falling asleep in school his parents took him to a fancy child psychiatrist who filled him up with bear-shaped Vitamins and sent him on his merry way to a fucking anxiety disorder.

After he met Pat, really met him, beyond the flip-flops and the mop of blonde hair, Jonathan realized he was doing it again. Chasing.

There aren’t enough fucking bear-shaped Vitamins in the world to cure him this time, though. Andrée might have made him into the man he is today, but she never did get that first lesson through his head.

“Where are you, Jonathan?”

“What?” Jonathan startles, and sits up straighter. He didn’t realize he’d been quiet this whole time.

Dr Lang smiles, her knowing smile, the smile she does before she breaks down his complexes like a wrecking ball through a brickhouse. “You seemed to be lost in thought, there.”

He fakes a laugh. “I was, sorry. I was thinking that I did that as a kid, too. The chasing thing.”

“What did you chase a kid, Jonathan?” Dr Lang asks.

“Uh, people. To get their approval.”

“I see. And now?”

“Now…” Jonathan swallows. He starts picking at a piece of wood sticking out from the coffee table. “Just Kaner’s. Or not his approval, like. Him. I don’t know.”

“Must be tiring, all this chasing around.”

“It is, but I mean, no one’s making me do it. It’s not like there’s someone holding a fucking gun to my head and telling me to run after him, eh?”

He knows he’s doing the thing, and he knows she knows he’s doing the thing. He’s trying to pretend he can choose. They’ve been through this. He knows he can’t choose, he’s not ashamed. He’s just tired. Dr Lang lets silence hang between them for a couple of seconds and then asks, “Have you been alone with Patrick since that night?”

Jonathan breathes in, out. “No.”

“And you’d like him to chase after you for once.”

The splinter of wood goes beneath his nail and pokes at the skin. It hurts. “ _Fuck_ —uh sorry. Yes. Yes, I do.” He sucks on his finger for a second before settling back and adding, “That’s not who he is, though. He doesn’t do that. He does the running away. He’s got his pride. I mean, I do, too, I just—”

 _Love him more than that_ , he finishes in his head, but can’t bring himself to verbalize it. Dr Lang heard it, anyway. She regards him, still smiling, even though it’s a sad smile, now. She never hides her sympathy. It was annoying at first, but now Jonathan finds it reassuring. It means she cares. “What do you want to do, Jonathan?”

“I want—I don’t want to reach out first.”

“Good. Then don’t.”

“That’s fuckin’ easy to say.” Jonathan grumbles. He holds Dr Lang’s kind eyes and crosses his arms. She seems unfazed.

“Don’t think of it as this huge thing that’ll define who you are and your relationship with Patrick. You’d like him to take the first step, very well, you can wait for him to do that, or not, you can talk to him first, and that’s fine as well. None of it makes you weak, Jonathan. It’s just something that can happen or not.” Dr Lang declares, and adds, in a careful tone that weighs heavy in Jonathan’s chest, “You’re not the lizard.”

“I know that.” He snaps. The room’s bathed in soft yellow light. It’s already dark outside. He sinks down the pillows and tries not to think about the last time he and Pat had sex on their sectional. At night, just like now, by the big windows in the living room, with the city glowing behind them. Pat doesn’t ride him often so when it happens it sticks to Jonathan’s memory like maple syrup between his teeth. Sticky. Too fucking sweet.

“You’re a complete person.” Dr Lang says, still careful, “With or without Patrick.”

“I know that.” He repeats, but it’s a lie.

He looks down at his lap, mind still in the gutter, and sees Pat’s thighs spread over his own, his dick flush against Jonathan’s stomach as his hips go up, down, left, right, moving pretty and deep. It built up so slow that night. He remembers Pat’s hands in the back of the couch, the sweat running down his back after Jon hugged him close, fucking into that spot that made him drawl out broken ‘ _yeah_ ’s. He remembers how Pat kept picking up speed and slowing down, edging himself, again and again, and edging Jonathan along with him. He remembers the taste of salt as Pat kissed him and finally let them come, together. When Pat leaned back, there were tears falling down his cheeks and around his big, soft grin. He looked manic. The neon lights outside made his teeth look pink.

“Jonathan.” Dr Lang says, and he looks up like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Fuckin’ hell, I’m sorry. I can’t focus today.”

Dr Lang sighs. “On the contrary, I think you focus too much. Just not on yourself.”

**8**

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Patrick stands still, looking off into nothing. He drinks another swing of the whiskey bottle.

The kid knows. Or, if he doesn’t know, he suspects something. Patrick doesn’t feel panic, or fear. Maybe because he doesn’t really feel much these days. Maybe because he’s drunk. He barely snaps back into attention in time to put a hand on the elevator’s doors before they fall shut.

“Easy.” Patrick mutters to himself, and stumbles into the hallway.

Or maybe he’s not worried because it’s Stromer. Stromer’s still stuck in his redemption arch, even though he’d been redeemed from the moment he put on their jersey. Plus, he’s a good guy, genuinely. He keeps his head low, but Patrick’s seen him around Brinks, and there’s a layer of thick caring beneath all their snark. That little freak-out the other day must mean he’s known for a while, and the secret’s weighing on him. Patrick’s surprised he hasn’t told Brinks yet. Or he has, and Brinks is better at hiding it because Brinks doesn’t give a fuck about anything that doesn’t affect him directly. The first time Brinks came out with them for drinks, Sharpy pulled Patrick aside and told him they’d found him a son.

There’s a conversation to be had. Not just with Dylan, or Alex. Hell, Patrick’s not sure Stromer even has a real secret to keep anymore.

His hands are shaking as he walks up to the door. He considers knocking, but it’d be stupid. He knows for a fact there’s no one here. Jon didn’t even look him the eye when they discussed special units, he wouldn’t come to their fucking condo. Patrick tilts the Jameson into his mouth again, this time until he chokes in it.

Oh, and it’s 7pm on a Tuesday, that’s right. Jon’s with his shrink. His worthless fucking shrink. If she was any good, Jon had left Patrick for good a long time ago. Patrick opens the door and slams it behind him.

The apartment still smells like their tacky Amber candles. It’s cold, though. It’s colder outside, but in here’s a different type of a cold. A cold that comes from being empty. Patrick drops his keys and phone in the little basket by the door before he realizes what he’s doing.

 _Habit_ , he thinks, _is the foundation of being human_. Habit and safety. This place used to tie those together. He looks around, taking it in. He hasn’t been here in days. Despite everything, it’s still the only home he’s ever fought for. He finishes the whiskey in one last gulp and drops the bottle on the carpet. It spins all over the place and rolls under the coffee table.

The couch’s all messed up, one pillow on the floor, another thrown over the table. Patrick puts them back on the couch and inspects it until he finds what he’s looking for: a stain on the fabric of the cushion. He leans down until his nose is pressed against it and breathes. _Fuck_.

“Fuck.” He rasps out. His voice echoes. Patrick forces himself to step back and slides out of his jacket, leaving it on the couch. Without a second thought, he runs up the stairs, yanking off the rest of his clothes as he goes, his beanie, his Timbs, his jeans, his boxers, his socks. He trips a couple of times along the way, and curses, loud, louder, pulse ricocheting in his throat, stomach churning and turning.

When he gets to their bedroom, he’s naked except for the SSM hoodie. The bed’s unmade. Their pictures are still on the stand, as well as _Pride and Prejudice_ , an empty aluminum flask and an _Iphone_ charger. Patrick grabs the remote from the bed and turns on the TV on the wall. Just as he expected, it’s a news channel, and the anchor’s speaking in French. He turns it off and puts the remote on the stand, on top of the book.

This is Jonny. The only Jonny he’s able to touch right now. Patrick sits at the edge of the bed, on the right side. The sheets are ice cold, but still the softest he’ll ever lay on. 1000 thread count of 100% organic, ethically sewed cotton, because of course it is. Patrick lets his body fall onto the mattress with a _poof_. He shimmies up the bed until he finds Jon’s pillow and shoves his face into it. After going cold turkey for almost a week, it’s almost too much.

 _God_ , it is too much. Patrick moans, alone in their bedroom, and pulls the comforter over himself. He puts his own pillow between his thighs, and thinks about how Jon stood next to Jeremy while Jeremy drew out rushes in the whiteboard. From that angle, he was like the outline of a mountain, straight and curved in all the places where Patrick fits perfectly. Patrick rocks hard and quick against the pillow, breathing wetly, mind swimming from the alcohol and the yearning cursing through his blood.

Despite the whiskey, he can tell it won’t take long. He turns his head to stare out of the glass wall, at the city outside, even if he can barely keep his eyes open. Last time he ate Jon out was against that window. He still remembers the sound of Jon’s hands sliding against the glass.

“ _Fuck_ , baby.” Patrick curses, and puts his head into the pillow until he can’t breathe.

The pressure peaks too quickly and his orgasm leaves him empty, dissatisfied. His muscles hurt as he stretches his legs, then his arms, finally his back. Fatigue settles over his body. He didn’t come here to sleep, but he’s too fucking worn out to think about getting up. Besides, no one cares. No one else is coming. He came here alone and he’ll leave alone.

 _Like life_ , Patrick thinks, and falls asleep.

**9**

He knew he’d break eventually. He’s always been shit with secrets. Ryan didn’t know how to tell their parents he’d proposed to Syd so he told Dylan first, because he knew Dylan would take care of that for him. Although, well, it’s not the same. He didn’t snitch this time, he just… did a fucking awful job at hiding it. And it’s not like he could’ve guessed he and Shawzy would start hanging out more. Or that Shawzy’s way more observant anyone’s ever given him credit for. Dylan was developing some sweet ninja skills out of avoiding Kaner and Jonny all the time, but Shawzy’s sudden attack caught him completely off-guard. 

They’re sitting on the couch at the Shaw’s living room, and Andy’s trying to do an elaborate gymnastics routine on Dylan’s leg. 

“Don’t know what you mean, bro.” Dylan finally says. He does a kicking motion to keep Andy from falling back on her ass. 

“Andy.” Shawzy warns. She wraps her little arms around Dylan’s leg and sticks out her tongue. “Put that thing away right now, young lady.” She giggles. “And yes, you do. Young boy.” 

“No, I don’t, old man. I’m an open book. I got nothing to hide.”

“A fucking open—did you tell Alex, at least? Seriously. Whatever it is? I feel like I’m sitting next to a pressure cooker.” Shawzy puts a hand on Dylan’s shoulder and says, mockingly, “I’m worried for your health.”

He leaves his hand there, though. He is worried. 

“Shut up. Alex doesn’t know anything, because there’s nothing to know.” He quickly adds, and lets silence hang between them for a while, still looking at the kid. She’s grinning up at him, one big empty space where her front tooth should be, and he smiles back, if in a more nervous way. Fucking Shawzy. Tricked him with warm dinner and a cute kid right on the night Chaun’s got her jiu jitsu lessons. 

“It’s got something to do with Kaner.” 

Dylan’s so surprised he lets his leg drop and Andy tumbles back into the carpet in a fit of laughter. She quickly climbs back up into Dylan’s lap and he holds her close, arms shaking, like she’s an emotional support pillow. Her ponytails tickle his neck. She makes herself comfortable and turns back to watch the TV. _Better Call Saul_ is definitely not age appropriate. “You don’t know anything, you’re just saying that. Me and Kaner are cool.”

“‘Didn’t say you weren’t cool. I’ve noticed your little cat and mouse game. You’re avoiding him like the fucking plague. Not just him, Toes, too.”

 _Oh my_ _fuck_. “No, I’m not.” Dylan squeaks out, and hates himself for it. If his demeanor didn’t do the trick, the squeaking will. Andy hits her tiny hand against his arm, like she’s telling him to fucking cool it.

“Hey, whatever it is, it’s none of my business, I’m just trying to—look, they’re not the kind of guys who’ll put up with this shit for too long. Especially Taze. I’m surprised he hasn’t blown up in your face about it. You gotta man—” Shawzy glances at Andy and clicks his tongue, “toughen up, you gotta toughen up and talk to them straight. Whatever the problem is. Not fair to keep it one sided, don’t you think?” 

It might be the first time Dylan’s looked at it from Taze and Kaner’s perspective. They don’t know why he’s been acting like this. Or if they do, maybe they think he’s acting like this for the wrong reasons. He’s not, he doesn’t care if they’re … whatever they are, he’s just terrified of fucking it up for them. It must be so fucking hard already. 

He knows it is.

“Dylan.”

“Deehan!” Andy repeats.

“Sorry. Sorry. You’re right, _fuck_.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes. “Of course I am. Unclench, buddy. We like you here. God knows why.” Shawzy jokes. Dylan lets out a laugh and smiles at him. Shawzy smiles back. Then he swats Dylan across the head. “Don’t fucking swear in front of my daughter, though.”

**10**

The game in D.C. had been looming over his calendar like a fucking ghost. Not that he dislikes playing in Capital One, he was just dreading what came after. The dinner. Jonathan doesn’t have a problem telling people no, but TJ’s a different breed. He crawled under Jonathan’s skin when they were eighteen and never left. They don’t see each other very often, is the thing. And Jonathan doesn’t want to give Pat the satisfaction.

Tonight, TJ chose a particularly trashy joint, the low-lighting-high-ceilings type of place Jonathan never sets foot in unless invited. There’s escorts everywhere. He can almost smell the hair gel.

He should’ve fucking begged off.

“And then next thing I knew, dude was _gone_.” TJ says, and points his knife in Pat’s direction. “I still don’t know where you went, to this day. Just disappeared for the whole night. What the hell were you even doing? Fucking the whole Villa?”

 _No, just me_ , Jonathan thinks, and pokes at the steak with his fork.

Saader laughs. “Kaner doesn’t have the stamina.”

Jonathan arches his eyebrows before he can help it and pointedly ignores how Pat drums his fingers on the table. Pat’s like a burning coal sitting next to him. Jonathan’s scared of even moving his elbows too much, God forbid they touch. A couple of weeks ago they would’ve had their ankles linked under the table, or maybe their knees pressed together. Maybe Jonathan would’ve sneaked a hand on top of Pat’s thigh.

He’s fucking exhausted. He feels like he can’t ever relax his shoulders again, like he’s dangling on the edge of a knife. Tonight’s loss is just another boulder on his back. He’s so fucking tired of this. He could handle their bad spell on ice if Pat didn’t flat out refuse to talk to him, let alone apologize.

“Yeah, well.” Pat drawls. He sounds angry, which is hilarious. “I guess we’ll never know.”

“Please, I bet you just walked around and fucking fell asleep somewhere. Hey, babe,” TJ starts, obviously beckoning Jonathan, and Jonathan hums back just because he knows it’ll piss Pat off even more. “Pass the butter, steak’s dry as hell.” Jonathan obliges, and TJ starts spreading butter on his steak with his knife, so deeply uncaring about manners and etiquette Jonathan can’t help but smile. “But yeah, like, I remember most of Sochi, f’course, but this I’ll never forgive, dude, I’d have some hot gymnast come up to me only to ask where Blondie was. It sucked ass. You just fucking disappeared.”

The smile vanishes off Jonathan’s face. “Yeah, he does that sometimes.” He says before he can stop himself. His tone’s normal enough, and no one on this table cares enough to pick up on the weight of the words. Well, maybe one person. Although Jonathan’s starting to doubt him, too.

“Yeah, 2015’s parade was the same.” Saader says. “Him and Sharpy would just go off by themselves. Oh, but you, too, Jonny, don’t try it. I remember a certain guy who called me from the middle of a road without pants or shoes and puke all over his socks.”

That makes TJ pause his steak buttering. “Woah, what? _Babe_. You’re holding out on me. Why am I just hearing about this?” He asks, and Jonathan shrugs. He downs the rest of his wine and motions at the waiter for another glass.

“Ah, c’mon, Osh, you should know by now, Jon’s not gonna tell you anything that makes him look bad, he’s fucking perfect.” Patrick spits. TJ and Saader laugh.

It’s the longest dinner of Jonathan’s life.

**11**

It’s 1 am when they finally wave Oshie goodbye. They take different cabs to the hotel. Brandon rides with Jon. Patrick’s mood is so fucking foul by then even he must’ve picked up on it. Patrick goes up to the panoramic terrace first, just to take a breather. He closes his eyes, inhales, exhales, and goes back to the elevator.

He steps out on the seventh floor and hears a soft, unmistakable, “Fuckin’ hell.” to his left. Patrick schools his expression and turns his head. Jon’s standing there, face red. The doors of both their elevators close behind them with a ding.

“Small world.” Patrick comments. Jon rolls his eyes and walks off without another word, hands balled into fists. More than that awful dinner, more than him turning his back to Patrick like Patrick’s nothing, it’s the silence that pisses him off the most. They’ve never been quiet. They’ve always been loud, insistent, big in each other’s faces, demanding each other’s attention, touching, reaching, pulling, never fucking quiet. Jon doesn’t do the silent treatment. He’s terrible at it. It irritates Patrick that he’s even trying. “Yeah, goodnight to you, too, honey.” Patrick spits out.

Jon stops. “Oh, you are—” he does a 180 on his heels, eyes flashing, and then seems to catch himself and completes the twirl, going back to stomping his way through the empty corridor. 

Well, fine. That’s just fine.

Patrick starts walking to the opposite side, where his room is, already itching for his melanin pills and a glass of whiskey, but then pauses. Before he can second guess the impulse, he turns to follow Jon down the corridor, hands in his pants’ pockets, faux-casual. He doesn’t feel casual at all. He’s already sweating, and his heart’s pounding, loud in his ears. It’s been a while since they were alone together. Just sitting next to him in that shitty restaurant nearly drove Patrick insane. He had to pretend to need the toilets so he could grab the sink and close his eyes until the feeling subsided.

“I’m what?” He presses. His voice echoes within the walls. Anyone could hear. There’s six or seven of their teammates sleeping on this floor alone. To his own surprise, Patrick doesn’t give a fuck. “C’mon, you had plenty to say in front of your buddy, yeah?”

“Leave me alone.” Jon bites out, and walks faster. Patrick has to increase his speed considerably to keep up. _Long-legged freak_ , Patrick thinks, and tries not to feel horny about it, or stare at his ass too much. He fails.

“Ah, c’mon, I thought you wanted me to stop running away, don’t you wanna talk now? Let’s talk about our fucking feelings, _babe_ , I’m right here.” Patrick says, putting as much sarcasm into his voice as he possibly can. It’s a cruel thing to say. Patrick knows that. If Jon would just fucking look at him, just once.

He doesn’t. He stays quiet, and keeps walking, shoulders held tight, stubborn as a bull. Always so damn stubborn. Despite his anger, or maybe especially because of it, Patrick wants to reach for him even now, wrap his arms around his waist and press his mouth against the sweat sticking to the back of his neck. He wants Jon. He’s wanted Jon for days, weeks, months, years. He’s here. He’s not ready to stop. He was wrong. He can’t be alone. He can’t give this up. An ugly weight settles over Patrick’s chest and burns up his lungs, making it hard to breathe. 

Patrick does a little sprint until his nose almost touches Jon’s jacket and says, “Look who’s running now, huh.”

In half a heartbeat, Jon turns, grabs him by the neck and shoves him against the wall, hard enough to make the back of his head sting. “You’re a dick.” Jon says into Patrick’s face, and he sounds tired, like he just ran a marathon. His breath smells like wine. “That’s what you are.”

He must’ve licked his mouth at some point. His lips are shiny, stained red. “You love dick, babe.” 

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

The harshness of his tone makes Patrick’s temper flare up again and he slots his leg between Jon’s. “So, what, does Oshie get custody of it now, because I wasn’t notified. Does he get your toys, too?”

“Shut up, you,” Jon stops, panting, and his breathing is jagged, broken. His hand on Patrick’s neck slips inside the collar of his shirt and over his collarbone. That single touch is enough to make Patrick’s heart stutter. “I don’t get you. I don’t know what you want. What do you want me from me, eh? Tell me. Tell me how to make us okay because I, I can’t fucking do this anymore. I can’t keep chasing you, Pat, I can’t.”

Patrick’s stunned. He didn’t think Jon was hurting like he was. He figured Jon was fine. Looking at him now, though, the bags under his eyes, the cuts on his jaw from shaving, it’s clear he made a mistake. Jon’s not fine. “Tell me what you want.” He repeats.

The very first thought that crosses Patrick’s mind is the image of a plane taking off to somewhere far away, where there’s mountains, and a house, and a lake with fish. Patrick lets out a shaky breath, puts his hands on each side of Jon’s face and leans forward, but before he can press their mouths together the elevator rings open down the corridor, and Jon shies away from it like he was burned. 

“Stop, _stop_ , I don’t care.” Patrick whispers, moving with him. Animated voices echo in the silence, but they’re not coming this way. Even if they were, Patrick doesn’t think he could let go. He rubs his thumbs over Jon’s cheeks and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I don’t want nothing but you.” He murmurs, and does it again. “I’m,” His stomach twists itself into a knot but Patrick’s forces himself to continue, “I’m sorry I ever made you think different.”

Jon exhales out of his nose. "Then fucking stop leaving in the middle of the night to God knows where, eh? Stop pushing me away.”

He kisses the cuts on Jon's jaw and Jon's hands tighten around his shoulders. "I'll try."

"At least tell me why. I want to understand.”

"I don’t know.” Jon’s frown deepens and he starts to move away, so Patrick pulls him closer before he can. “Fuck, okay, I’m scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

 _How much I need you._ It's on the tip of his tongue. He can't say it with words. Instead, he kisses Jon on the mouth, and to his surprise, Jon kisses back. It’s as exhilarating now as it was 7 years ago. His lips are soft, and fit perfect against Patrick’s own. Jon knows how to kiss him, how to lick into him, how to take charge and tilt his head where he wants it. Jon knows him. When they break for air, Patrick’s panting, and settled in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. “You’re it for me.” He says, surprising them both.

The words echo in the silence of the corridor. Patrick can’t believe he said it. Jon’s eyes widen for a moment, then grow half-lidded and crinkled at the corners. He presses their foreheads together and laughs, dopey and stupid and fucking beautiful.

“Me too.” He says, and then adds, like an afterthought, “You dick.”

**(12)**

In 2012, when Pat was still Kaner, and Jonathan was still in denial, they’d gone out with TJ for dinner, in an equally trashy restaurant, with equally trashy food, and came back to the hotel equally trashed. Or no, maybe worse. Definitely worse. 

Saader went with them that time, too, and Bollig as well. Kaner could barely put a foot in front of the other. Jonathan had to carry him out of the cab with an arm around his waist just so he wouldn’t fall on his fucking face. It’d been a fun dinner, with TJ it was always fun, but seeing Kaner like that never failed to sour Jonathan’s mood. He didn’t get Kaner’s need to drink himself stupid. He liked booze, they all did, but Kaner acted like he wanted to drown in it. And God forbid anyone called him out on anything, he’d turn into a fucking volcano, erupting at the slightest touch.

They walked into the hotel all over each other, being loud and probably inappropriate. Everything was blurry, tight around the edges. Jonathan felt like time went by in slow-motion, with Kaner’s hand fisting the back of his jacket and Bollig pushing them both forward.

The hotel lobby was empty except for the security guard and a receptionist who didn’t spare them more than a glance and a twist of her mouth. It was 2 am. They had a plane to catch in 6 hours. Saader leaned against the elevator and smashed the button, again and again, until Bollig caught his arm, laughing.

“Okay, big man, I think it’s coming.” He said.

“Hold on.” Kaner murmured, and shook Jonathan by his jacket. “No, what? We’re not fucking calling it this early, right? The bar’s still open.”

Bolling only laughed harder. “Sweetheart, it’s 2 am.”

“So?”

“No one wants to deal with your temper on the plane.” Jonathan slurred. Saader tried to nod in agreement, but in his state, it looked like he was trying to shake something off his head.

“Kaner needs his nappy time.” 

“That’s right.” Bollig said, mock-serious. “Last time baby went on the plane hungover, baby yelled at some poor dude cause’ his _canapés_ were too salty.”

The elevator doors rang open just as Kaner yanked himself out of Jonathan’s hold. “I don’t fucking have a temper, fuck you. Fuckin’ assholes.” He barked, and stumbled in a random direction without looking back. Jonathan exhaled deeply out of his nose and rubbed his fingers into his eyes, trying to cool down.

Every fucking day. Like a fucking volcano, Kaner was. “Come back here.”

“The _canapés_ were salty.” Kaner yelled, and disappeared down the corridor.

Jonathan felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Bolling frowning at him. “Yo, don’t worry about it, he’ll go up on his own,”

“No, he fuckin’ won’t.” Jonathan interrupted. “He’ll puke somewhere and then what? Who’s gonna find him like that? Don’t worry about it? Fucking come off it, Brandon, eh? Get Saader to his room.”

Bollig put both his hands up. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Sorry. I’ll just go get him, eh.”

He turned to follow Kaner to wherever the fuck he’d gone off to sulk, and thoroughly ignored Saader’s drunken screams of, “Don’t kill your winger, Cappy, no one else wants to play with you!”

He was having fun. _They_ were having fun. Fuck Kaner. And fuck himself, too, for letting it affect him that much. Jonathan bawled his hands into fists and decided, right then and there, as he walked down the corridor, that would be the last time he gave a damn about someone who clearly couldn’t care less about him.

He stepped out of the corridor into another empty hall. This one was actually empty, with just a lamp in the corner and a plant next to it. Nothing. Jonathan was about to turn on his heels and try the other side of the corridor when he heard the rustling of a curtain, and a soft “ _Shit_ ”. He followed the noises, steps slow and careful, in case it was someone else, but of course it wasn’t. There was a small photo boot in the other corner of the hall, hidden from view. The curtain was pulled closed, and there was someone sitting inside of it. Someone wearing bright yellow Nikes.

“Fuckin’ hell, Kaner.” Jonathan groaned.

“Piss off.”

“Oh, _piss off_?” He repeated, and stumped to the boot until he could pull open the curtains. Patrick had his arms crossed, and he was pouting. “You’re having yourself a little photoshoot, dickhead?” 

“What, maybe I am.”

“Last thing you should be doing right now is having yer’ fucking picture taken, eh, Kaner, you look like shit. Get up, let’s g—”

“D’you have change?”

“What?”

Patrick flicked the photo boot’s screen with a finger. His eyes were glued to it. They looked very blue under the bright light. “Change.” He repeated. Then he scooted further to the left until there was an inch of space left in the already tiny bench. “C’mere.”

“No, _get up_.”

“Fuckin’… come here, Jonny.” Kaner said. He grabbed the hem of Jonathan’s jacket and pulled him down. It was so unexpected that Jonathan went down before he could even grasp what was happening. The boot creaked under their combined weight. Jonathan had to put a leg over Patrick’s just so he could get a third of his ass on the fucking bench. His knees were pressed tight to the booth’s walls. He could barely move.

“What the _fuck_.” Jonathan yanked the curtain closed and turned to glare at Kaner. Kaner was smiling. The same heavy feeling returned to Jonathan’s chest, but this time it felt different, softer.

He was suddenly very aware of all the places where they were touching, the warmth of Kaner’s thigh under his leg, the side of his chest glued against Jonathan’s. Kaner’s dimple was on full display, next to his pretty fucking mouth, and Jonathan tried very hard not to stare it, but it was a little difficult with Kaner’s dumb face inches away from his, stinking of vodka.

“Whoop, whoop, pull over, that ass is too fat.” Kaner sung off-key, and Jonathan rolled his eyes.

“What’s up with you lately?” He asked, for the sake of it, and because he needed a distraction.

Kaner’s grin disappeared.

“Maybe I just want to take some fucking pictures. Can I take some fucking pictures, or do you need to give me a hard time about that, too?”

“Don’t make this about me.”

“Everything’s about you.” Kaner spit, and seemed surprised he’d said it. His eyed widened and his face turned even redder. He huffed and slapped the boot’s screen again. “D’you have change or not.” Jonathan didn’t know what to make of any of it. He felt his own face grow warmer.

“Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ hell, hold on.” He lifted his ass so he could take a couple of bills of his back pocket. The motion made him feel like he was displaying himself. It didn’t help to have Kaner’s fingers drumming on his knee. Fuck. The air was becoming too tight. “Didn’t you leave with 100 dollars?”

“And who paid for all the fucking margaritas? Cause’ it wasn’t your fucking university buddy, _babe_.”

“My—shut up.” Jonathan said. He put the bills into the slot, not even capable of discerning what they were. He figured 5 of them would be enough for whatever one shoot cost. “Promise we’ll go up after this.”

“Yes, yes, straight to bed, cappy, pinky promise.”

The boot beeped loudly and the screen changed to the menu. Jonathan pressed the _photostrip_ s option before Kaner got picky with it. “Unbelievable. Fuckin’ pictures, eh, you’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

He watched the countdown begin on the boot’s screen. The photo boot was too quiet. He looked at Kaner through their image on the screen and his stomach dropped. Kaner’s face was closed off. Not the usual way, though, like when Jonathan asked him about his pick-ups or how many shots he’d had that night. No, Kaner was upset. Jonathan didn’t know what to do. But he knew he had do something.

He felt like he had to do something since they’d lifted a cup together.

The flash went off, once.

“Fuck this.” Kaner mumbled, moving like he was about to get up. Before he could lose his nerve, Jonathan put an arm around Kaner’s shoulders and pushed them impossibly closer. He kissed Patrick’s temple, and Patrick breathed out a surprised laugh. His fingers spread over Jonathan’s thigh. “What the fuck are you doing? Stop.” 

“You know I’ve got enough room in my heart for two Americans, man.” Jonathan said, and kissed him again, and again. The flash went off.

“I said quit it.” Kaner huffed between giggles.

“Not until you stop being jealous.” Jonathan mocked, and started peppering kisses all over Kaner’s freckles, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose. He didn’t know why he was doing it. He just wanted to. He was drunk and it felt good.

“Jesus Christ, stop. Stop.” Kaner’s voice turned hard, and he grabbed Jonathan by the neck, abruptly pushing him away. His pupils were blown to the max, only a hint of blue around the black. He was panting. “Are you fucking with me? This is what, fuckin’ funny to you?”

The flash went off again.

“What the hell are you,” Jonathan started, but the words got caught in his chest as Patrick pulled him down and their noses bumped into each other. He could feel Kaner’s shaky breaths puffing against his lips.

“You don’t want me.” Kaner said, voice small, and pressed their mouths together. It only lasted a couple of seconds. Jonathan’s brain short-circuited. The flash went off. Neither of them cared.

When Kaner moved away, his eyes were closed tight like he thought Jonathan was going to hit him. Jonathan’s chest hurt. _As if._ As if Jonathan could ever hurt him. As if he would ever want to. He leaned now and kissed Patrick Kane on the mouth again, because he couldn’t believe it’d taken him so long to know what that felt like. Kaner froze in place, not kissing back until Jonathan’s hand went up to his jaw and tilted his head just right. Then, something seemed to explode between them. An invisible dam. “No fuckin’ way.” Kaner murmured, awe pouring out of his voice, before he opened his mouth against Jonathan’s and let him taste inside. That was their first kiss, but like everything else where Kaner was concerned, it came to them easier than breathing.

The kisses became wetter, and slicker, and Kaner was making noises Jonathan wanted to record and keep on a loop forever. His leg slipped out of Kaner’s thigh and he fucking whined. “No. No, c’mere.” He muttered, frantically grabbing at Jonathan’s waist like he wanted to pull Jonathan up to his lap. Jonathan laughed, giddy with it. He saw the tent on the front of Kaner’s slacks and a primal, buried part of him wanted to know how it felt.

They were in a fucking hotel lobby.

“Don’t think we can hang those pictures, eh.” Jonathan said, mostly to get his mind off it.

Kaner nosed down his neck, and drawled, “Mayb’not.” He bit at the skin there. “Jonny.” He murmured against the blooming bruise, and kissed it, unbearably gentle. Kaner was never gentle. Warmth filled Jonathan’s body from the depth of his groin to the tips of his fingers. His half-hard dick twitched up to full attention and Jonathan swallowed.

“Patrick. Pat.” He breathed out, too reverent, too out of it already. He grabbed a fistful of Kaner’s hair and pulled on it until Kaner had to look him in the eye. His eyes were half-lidded, and he had a deep flush spread over his cheeks and his nose. His mouth was red and raw. _I could look at you forever_ , Jonathan thought, but he didn’t dare voice it. Instead, he brushed his hand over Kaner’s cheek and said, “TJ’s my friend.”

Kaner snorted. “Yes, I know.”

“Okay.”

He surged up at the same time Jonathan leaned down and they were kissing again, as easy as that, like they’d been kissing for ages, not seconds. There were a lot of thoughts swimming like sharks around Jonathan’s head, about them, their careers, Kaner’s moods, the uncertainty of it all, but the alcohol and the adrenaline did their job, and right then, Jonathan didn’t care.

He cared about Kaner.

“D’you wanna go up?” 

“I’ll go wherever you want.” Pat said, breathing heavily, and gave Jonathan one more kiss. “Just don’t stop.”

**13**

Seven years later, Jon hasn’t stopped. He takes Patrick to his hotel room and this time he doesn’t trip on their sports bags, or gets awkward about the lights being on, or takes an eternity and a half to pull off his pants.

This time, Jon barely lets the door close behind them before he steps out of his shoes and starts taking off his clothes.

“Shower with me.” He says, not a question, and Patrick follows his naked ass into the bathroom like a cartoon floating towards the smell of pie. The reality isn’t far off. It hasn’t been that long but it’s too long for them. Patrick’s bursting at the seams just looking at him.

Everything is quiet. Jon’s too quiet.

He steps inside the shower and turns on the water to scorching hot levels, just the way he likes it. This is where Patrick would usually tell him to cool that shit, and Jon would lower the temperature by maybe half a degree and bitch the whole time, but neither of them says anything.

Instead, Patrick undresses, and stares, and Jon tilts his head under the spray and looks back at him through the fogged-up glass. His eyes are still glued to Patrick’s when he wraps a hand around his dick and squeezes from the root right around the head, movements slow and languid, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Patrick swallows. His own dick’s heavy between his legs, and he presses it into his stomach just to watch Jon exhale out of his nose.

“C’mon.” Jon murmurs. Patrick drops his folded clothes on the vanity top, a pointed contrast to the mess Jon left near the door, and steps in behind him. The shower’s floor warms up his cold feet. The water’s still too hot, but he doesn’t give a shit. He can’t wait any longer.

Jon still catches him off guard sometimes.

Patrick’s looking at him now, the bulk of his shoulders, his ass, his thighs, the way his skin shifts and moves, and he feels the same pull in the gut he felt when they were kids. He remembers it so vividly, the first time it happened, when he looked up on the plane and Jon was standing on the aisle with his back to him, yelling at someone, and Patrick got so hard he couldn’t move his hands for the rest of the flight. He wanted to wrap his arms around Jon’s chest and nest his dick against Jon’s ass, because Patrick knew, even at nineteen, that he’d fit there.

So, that’s what he does, and Jon deflates against him like an air mat. His arms settle on top of Patrick’s and he holds Patrick’s hands over his stomach.

They stay like that for a moment, in silence, water falling on their heads and shoulders. Patrick drags his mouth across skin thoughtlessly. He missed this skin. He missed this body. He missed this man.

Even before he loved Jon, he knew Jon was home. Maybe it’s time to stop running.

“I meant it. What I said before.” Patrick says. He’s not surprised at how hoarse his voice is. Jon sighs.

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe you.”

“Right.” Patrick rubs his nose against Jon’s shoulder and kisses it again. He breathes in, breathes out. “We could make it official, one day.”

Jon doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t push him away, or ask if he’s joking, if he’s lost his fucking mind. No, Jon doesn’t do any of that. Jon drags a hand down Patrick’s side, fingers slippery under the water, and grabs Patrick’s ass, hard. “Yeah?” He asks, cooler than a cucumber, even as Patrick’s hips start moving against him. “Where?”

“I, I don’t know,” Patrick pants. “Maybe a mountain.” He swallows, and groans when Jon squeezes his hand hard enough to leave dents. “A, fuck, a lake, wherever you want.”

“A lake, eh.”

He’s so out of it, he doesn’t realize Jon’s turned around until there’s hands on the back of his neck and a mouth against his own. Patrick can only hold onto Jon’s shoulders for dear life and moan against his lips when their stomach’s slide together. They know how to do this. They spent years doing just this, all over North America, all the fucking time.

But they’re not kids anymore. Patrick tries to hitch a leg over Jon’s waist and slips on the tile. His stomach drops. Jon barely catches him before he hits his head, but he can’t keep his balance and they end up tumbling against the wall in a mess of limbs. Patrick’s face is squeezed tight into Jon’s neck and he feels it rumble when Jon barks, “For fuck’s sake.” He can’t help it, he giggles. “Oh, shut up, Pat, you could’ve hurt yourself.”

He can’t stop laughing. Jon leans back to glare at him but the effect’s cut off by the smile on his face. He’s wetter than a fucking whale. His hair’s glued to his forehead except for the bits sticking out from Patrick’s fingers. He looks ridiculous. And yet, the sight makes Patrick’s chest flutter.

Patrick asked Jon to marry him, Jon asked him where, and then he nearly broke a leg.

It’s the little things.

**14**

Maybe Jonathan hallucinated the whole thing. He was buzzed, they both were, clearly, and it wouldn’t be the first time he dreamed about something like that. Seems unlikely, though. He kissed Pat goodbye at five am, met him for breakfast three hours later, and now they’re on the plane, and Pat’s hand is holding his under the armrest like his life depends on it. That’d never happened before.

At some point, Pat’s thumb kept rubbing over Jonathan’s ring finger, again and again. His eyes didn’t move from the gameplays on the _Ipad_ , but the fucker knew what he was doing _._ And he’d never done that before, either.

They’ve always been so fucking embarrassing after make-up sex.

Even more embarrassing to hear Shawzy’s obnoxious “ _Thank God.”_ when he saw Pat dropping his things next to Jonathan’s seat. Still, a small price to pay to have Pat’s hand in his and hear him smack gum around like a fucking maniac. The more time passes the more Jonathan believes the boys know, on some level, and the more time passes, the less he cares. Especially now. Now he can’t think about anything else but Pat’s mouth on against his back and the words he spoke.

Jonathan’s already dreading his next therapy session. He knows what Dr Lang’s going to tell him. She’ll ask for proof, because she knows their track record.

Pat talks a lot of shit. He makes a lot of promises. Their relationship started because Jonathan wanted the promise of who Pat was, not who the man he turned out to be. Jonathan grew to love both, that’s not the issue. He doesn’t believe Pat’s suddenly decided to let his walls down and trust Jonathan with all his fears, but that’s not the issue, either.

The issue is that Jonathan wants it to be real. He wants to marry Pat in front of a fucking lake. He’s wanted it since their third cup together. It’s November, though. The mountains are too dark, and the lakes are frozen, and every win feels like it’s being pulled out from under a boulder.

Not that Pat’s not trying. Even after all this time, Jonathan still catches himself marveling at Pat’s talent, his ease, his balance, the way he sees the game, and how the game almost bows its head to him. Pat’s hockey still gets Jonathan right where he lives. His little giant man.

Jonathan’s getting sidetracked here.

“Can you get me my hat,” Pat asks, signaling the overhead compartment with a tilt of his chin. Jonathan grabs it with one arm and throws it at Pat’s face, just to be an asshole. “What the hell.”

“Should’ve said please.”

“Piss off.”

“Are you cold?” Jonathan asks and checks the AC above them. It’s turned off, although you never know with planes. He feels a squeeze on his hand.

“I’m good.” Pat says. At least he’s smiling. Jonathan squeezes back, a little harder. Pat arches an eyebrow at him and squeezes even tighter. 

“You sure?”

Another squeeze. “Positive.” His fingers are starting to hurt, but he still answers with a bone-grinding squeeze. This time, Pat grabs just two fingers and squeezes so damn hard Jonathan has to bite down his cheeks so he won’t yelp. “Are _you_ good, Jonny?”

“I’m fine.” 

Jonathan should propose back. No, obviously, he will. He’s not letting the most guarded, cryptic fucking person he knows get away with saying it first. Pat may have done it first, but Jonathan’s going to do it better. He doesn’t know how yet, but he will. He won’t let this be another dream. He’s too old for dreams. Pat’s victorious expression morphs into a curious one as he looks over Jonathan’s shoulder, and Jonathan turns to find Stromer quickly looking away. He glances at Pat again, and Pat’s face is closed as stone. He’s let go of Jonathan’s hand completely.

Maybe Jonathan should find out what the fuck’s up with that first.

The seatbelt sign lights up. Pat doesn’t take hold of Jonathan’s hand again, so Jonathan does it for him. For once, Pat doesn’t yank himself free. He sits very still, _Ipad_ forgotten on his lap, looking out the window. The pilot announces the plane’s close to landing, and Jonathan doesn’t let go of his hand until the sign turns off.

**15**

“Like, I’m pretty sure they’re like, fucking, and I—” Connor chokes on his energy bar and Dylan watches him cough violently into the palm of his hand. “Can you not fucking die on me right now, bro.”

“Dylan, _fuck._ ” Connor rasps out, and leaves the phone screen to get some water, hopefully. Dylan hears a door opening, a faucet running, and faint echoes of Connor’s throat working.

“McDavid.”

“Hold on, hold on,” He pants. His red face reappears on the screen as he settles back on his bed and Dylan rolls his eyes. “They’re… what did you say?”

“They’re fucking. Ok, wait, that’s rude, I think it’s a real relationship. You know, like,” _you and me were_ , Dylan almost says. He swallows in dry and tries to control his expression. “Like real… adults.”

“Should you even be me telling this, like?”

Always the altruist one. Dylan suppresses the urge to throw the phone at the couch. He settles back into the pillows and blows out a breath. “Fuck, I don’t know. It’s not like—I’m not calling a press conference, here. It’s just you. I didn’t say any names. And it’s weird because like, Kirby told Nylander he thought they were a thing, and Nyls was like, what’s wrong with you, you freak, but now everybody’s talking about it, kind of, in a weird way, like they’re talking about it but not _talking_ about it, and I saw what I saw, but I can’t say anything, and Shawzy, he thinks something’s up with me, and Brinksy, too, and one of those guys—bro, honestly, I think one of them is going to kill me one of these days, and I feel like a total bastard cause’ they’ve been so nice to me, you know, and I’m over here—”

“Dylan.” Connor interrupts, and Dylan shuts his mouth. “Breathe.”

Dylan inhales, exhales. He clicks his tongue and lets the phone fall on his thigh, so Connor won’t see anything but the white ceiling of his living room.

“I am breathing. If I wasn’t breathing, I’d be dead.”

He hears Connor laugh, and despite himself, Dylan can’t help but feel happy he can still make that happen. “Ok, smartass. Have you told Brinksy about this?”

“Oh my God, can everyone stop asking me that? I don’t tell that guy everything.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Not this. He’s on the team. It’s different.”

“Yes, but,” Connor huffs. “I’m not gonna talk to your fucking ceiling, Dyls. Let me see you.” And that’s—Dylan cheeks warm up like heaters. He drags a hand across his face and puts the phone back up, eyes narrowed. At least Connor looks awkward, too. But Connor always does, so it doesn’t count. “Do these guys… _know_ that you know?”

“Ka—one of them definitely does. The one that wants to kill me. The other one, I’m not sure.”

“No one wants to kill you, Dyls, you’re just the most unsubtle person alive.”

It’s true. “Hey, that’s not true.”

The TV’s switched to highlights from their latest win in Buffalo, and Dylan’s momentarily distracted by it. That was a nice one. “What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t know.” Dylan answers, still looking at the TV. “I don’t want to come off as like, a ‘phobe, that’d be so fucking ironic, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

Ah, _shit_. When he looks back at the phone, Connor’s even redder, and he’s chewing at his lip. “I mean, cause’ like, I’m… yeah.”

“You should talk to them.” Connor says lowly, in a rush, the way he does when he’s nervous. “And maybe you could tell them about, like, Erie.”

“Erie?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come out of nowhere and talk to these two guys who are already dealing with their own shit about, _like, Erie._ ” Dylan mocks, pitching his voice low, and Connor furrows his eyebrows. Good, he’s mad now. He should be. What the hell?

“Well, why not?”

“Cause’—what even, Con? _We_ don’t talk about Erie.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to,"

“I don’t, I’m just saying.” Dylan spits, and this time he does throw his phone to the side of the couch. He gets up and slaps invisible dust out of his sweatpants.

“Don’t throw me like that. It was just a suggestion.”

“A fucking dumb one, bro.”

“Sorry for trying to help, _bro_.” Connor mimics. Copycat. Dylan crosses his arms and stares at the tilted image of Connor’s face. He knows he’s overreacting, but he’s been under a lot of stress, in his defense. This season can’t decide if it’ll be good or bad and he doesn’t know what else to do about it. Or everything else. “I thought you were happy in Chicago. Are you happy? Dyls.”

A weird mix of guilt and sadness overtakes Dylan’s chest. Sometimes it’s easy to forget Connor cares for him, even if it’s not how it was before. He picks up the phone. “I am. I’m happy. I’m just stressed. This is my last chance, we both know that. What if they freak, and our chemistry’s fucked, and the chip finally drops in Bowman’s head,”

“Do you want me to fly over?”

“What?” He tries to watch Connor’s face for signs that he’s joking, or blurted it out without thinking, but Connor’s serious. Too serious. “No, don’t be crazy. Why would you even say that? You know you can’t. This isn’t 2015 anymore, we’re not kids.”

“If I asked it’s because,”

“I said no.” Dylan interrupts, and then adds, almost frantically, “Hey, how about you? All this drama, I haven’t even asked, how’s your heart palpitations thing? Still…” Dylan swallows and Connor sighs, “palpitating?”

Connor looks like he’s going to argue for a second. He stares off somewhere in the distance, outside the phone, eyebrows still furrowed, but then he just sighs, again, and shrugs. “Yeah, it’s anxiety. We already knew that, though. Doctor might change my dose, but that’s about it. They want to wait until I’m back home” Connor says. It makes Dylan’s chest hurt. He knows how bad it gets, with Connor, he’s seen it firsthand. Edmonton’s so fucking cold, so fucking distant. At least he says _home_ , now, without a hint of doubt in his voice.

“That’s smart. Davo, it’s so normal now, Taze brought it up after practice the other day, y’know, his own struggles and like, five different guys were discussing side-effects of drugs and all. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Dylan babbles. Connor smiles.

“I know that, Dyls. I’m more worried about your thing. No one’s going to accuse you of anything. What matters is that they know you’re not… a threat, like. You support them no matter what. You’re their teammate.”

“Maybe, yeah.” They look at each other for a moment, and Dylan takes in Connor’s slightly pixelated image, the bags under his eyes, the mess of hair standing on top of his head. He’s in his hotel room in Philadelphia, waiting to get called down for warm-ups. He could’ve used this time to nap, relax, tune out the world for a little. He still called Dylan. He always calls Dylan. Dylan used to miss him like a phantom limb that was never his to begin with. Now, the feeling’s more like a pebble in his shoe. Small enough to go unnoticed, but once he realizes it’s still there, he can hardly think about anything else. “Shawzy said I should say something. Maybe I could text one of them.”

“That’s a good idea.”

It’s late. He should let Connor go, go deal with this by himself. Dylan fidgets with the strings of his hoodie, and blows out a breath. Connor’s his friend, and a big boy. If he needs to hang up he’ll say so. “Help me write it?”

Connor’s smile grows soft. “Of course, Dyls.” Dylan watches him turn to fix his hotel pillow the way he always does, two hits to the side, one in the middle. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and he blinks like he smelled salts. “Ooh, Stromer, we should do an email!”

**16**

Patrick regrets letting Jon drag him to the UC’s parking lot up until the moment Jon puts an honest to God dad-face and Dylan looks as if he’s begging for the concrete to crack open and swallow him alive. Then it’s a lot more fun. They’d cornered the kid after practice and Dylan couldn’t even get an excuse out before Jon took out his phone and started being _understanding_. It was beautiful to watch.

“Did you hire someone to write this?” Jon asks, looking up from the phone with a frown, and Patrick bursts out laughing. The interns talking at the other side of the lot give them a look. “Don’t fucking laugh, you dick.” Patrick closes his mouth and mimics a zipper. Jon looks down at the phone again and reads, low under his breath, “ _I sincerely apologize if I made either of you feel uncomfortable or inadequate, but I assure you this was due to my own lack of professionalism and not any underlying sentiments of prejudice—_ Dylan, I never thought you had underlying sentiments of prejudice towards myself, or Kaner.”

“ _Huh,_ ” Stromer says, redder than the color of the bag on his shoulder. Patrick takes pity on him and goes on his tip-toes to swat him upside the head. “Fuck, what’s with this team and hitting the back of my head?”

“It’s how we show love.” Patrick drawls, “Why the fuck didn’t you just say something?”

Dylan stares down at his shoes and rubs his soles against the pavement. “I… I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to be weird.” Patrick snorts.

“Sure, and sending us a fucking three-page email isn’t—”

“Shut up, Pat, for fuck’s sake.” Jon barks, and Patrick holds up his hands in surrender. He puts his hand on Dylan’s shoulder, maxing out the dad capacity, and gives it a shake. “Stromer, buddy, we’re good. It’s all good. We’re not going to—what did you even _—take appropriate measures_ , because you saw… what you saw. We were out in the open, eh? It was you, it could’ve been anyone else.”

“But we’re glad it was you, kid.” Patrick adds, mostly because he feels like he has to. His demeanor probably didn’t help. Dylan gives him a tentative smile. “I mean no one else would’ve written that, and that,” he points to his phone “was hysterical.”

“ _Pat._ ”

The smile vanishes. “Oh, fuck off, old man.”

“Woah, _woah_ , there’s your underlying prejudice, right there.”

“Why?” Dylan asks, and Patrick’s about to ask him why what when he realizes Stromer directed the question at Jon, specifically. Oh, he’s got jokes, now.

“Y’know, I think it was my car accident, messed with my head.” Jon tells him, and Dylan laughs. It’s small and nervous, but it’s a laugh.

“Alright, that’s not funny.”

Patrick watches as Jon puts an arm around Dylan’s shoulders and starts walking him to his car. He lets himself stay a couple of steps behind, hands in the pockets of his jeans, just watching. His heart’s beating fast, but slower than he thought it would. He’s not sweating, and his head’s not hurting. His shoulders feel light, and his hands aren’t shaking.

The world didn’t end. Someone knows, has known for a while, and the world didn’t end. He asked Jon to marry him, and the world didn’t end. He held Jon’s hand on the plane, and the world didn’t end.

Patrick stretches his neck and looks up at the afternoon sky. Orange and red bleed into the blue. Birds sing. Jon and Dylan are laughing about something stupid, probably. Dylan could be at their wedding, if no one else.

 _Pretty fucking terrible wedding_ , Patrick thinks, not without certain fondness. He watches the kid tilt his head to say something that makes Jon’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Their smiles are infectious. He catches up to them eventually. Jon cuffs him in the arm lightly, grin still in place. The orange light makes his skin darker, and his hair’s golden. “I was telling Stromer he should come by for dinner, and bring Brinksy, too.”

“Woah, no, wait a minute,” Patrick says, alarmed, at the same moment Dylan squeaks out an indignant, “ _Alex_?” 

“Well, you should’ve talked to us first, but I assumed…” Jon starts. His mouth falls shut when Dylan throws both his hands up in the air and holds them at his forehead, eyes closed, like he’s in pain.

“If you’re gonna say you assume I told Brinks everything, I’m gonna fucking lose it.” Dylan murmurs.

Quick steps come to a halt behind Patrick. “Told me what?” Brinks asks, and then, “Bro, why is Davo texting me about emails?”

**END.**


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